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Today I’m over at Aiming Low talking about threesomes. Come on over.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” column.

I’ve already started on my chess obsession by making a cheat sheet on the nerd whiteboard.

My family is usually very tolerant of my crazy. I think it has something to do with earning double points in order to access heaven.

Please note that getting into heaven may be a tad more complex than a reward card system. I’m not current on all things Jesus, but I imagine there’s a bit more to Christianity than double point day.

Anyway.

My brother, Ben, is probably the most tolerant of my crazy, because he shares a similar quality. This is the kid who removed the front, passenger seat of his car so people wouldn’t get in his space. Um, yeah. We’re totally related.

Ben knows a lot about cars. He’s been fixing my countless car issues for years. And until now he’s been happy to help. My car, much like me, is getting older. It desperately needs replacing, which I plan to do in the spring. Until then, however, I worry about all the small noises coming from the engine area. Each time I hear a weird noise I call and leave Ben a voicemail. This frequently occurs right after I listen to Car Talk on NPR. The program is my crack, and my brother’s biggest pet peeve.

Last weekend they featured a girl who lost a pregnant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach in her family’s car. It’s true! You can listen to the clip here.

After hearing this, I was convinced my car had a pregnant Mormon cricket hiding under a seat. I called and left my brother a very detailed message. He didn’t return that call, or the next call about my broken steering wheel. He also didn’t return the call from the previous week about… actually, I don’t even remember, but whatever it was IT WAS BROKEN.

This is all very upsetting and I’m considering having his reward card revoked as punishment. If that doesn’t work I’m going to refuse to replace my car.

That’ll teach him.

“Sarah, I’m soooo going to mate you.”

“Um.. I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“With absolute fear would be the correct response.”

“Well that’s obvious.”

“You do realize I’m talking about chess, right?”

“No.”

“Eww.”

This conversation is exactly why nerds shouldn’t be allowed to talk to real people. I think I’m going to have to run for public office and enforce nerd/non-nerd segregation in the work place.

What a powerful statement, right? I WISH.

My underwear are cotton boy-shorts from Target and hold zero sex appeal. So while the statement may not be powerful or sexy, it’s still ALMOST true.

Friday night I stayed home and did my laundry. That’s what happens without the power of pretty panties; no one wants to date me. Instead I watched “Dollhouse” while wearing said underwear and my Vanilla Ice concert shirt.

During a commercial break I walked upstairs to grab something and noticed this:

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a house fire? I completely panicked.

I ran downstairs, grabbed Daisy and headed outside. Once we got out there I realized, um, it’s winter, cold as balls and I don’t have any pants on. I also noticed that nothing smelled like smoke. The air smelled warm and cuddly, kinda like the load of white shirts, socks and underwear in the dryer.

Oh.

Yeah.

That’s right… the dryer is vented outside. My house wasn’t burning down after all. Thank god, because I really wanted to watch the end of “Dollhouse.’

A few times a year I give up refined sugar and alcohol. It’s like a do-it-yourself trip to The Betty, only there’s no pool or celebrities to talk shit on.

Pretty much it’s the longest two weeks of my life. I’m thirsty, my memory sucks and I’m craving chocolate something mad.

Last night I was commiserating with my friend Brittany about my inability to remember anyone’s name.

Me: It’s so hard for me to keep track of people unless there’s a burrito or potato chips stapled to their shirt.

Brittany: Or they smell like wine.

Me: Or if they have a TV hooked to their chests playing porn. Those are the people I always remember.

I think I found a new career path: I should be a tutor for kids. It might be tricky to get parents on-board with the whole porn thing, but I’m convinced once they realize that children will remember the most tragic part of their childhood they will have no trouble committing.

I’m gonna be filthy rich. Get it? Filthy… porn.

Ahhh, forget it. I don’t need you to understand my puns. Once my business is a success I’ll buy new readers who do.

This week’s column for In Utah This Week. PLEASE Don’t tell my mom I’m homesick. Otherwise she’ll make me come home and clean my room, which I’ve successfully avoided since 1994.

Spam mail rules. Seriously, where else are you going to learn about the basic human rights of hookers?

This email showed up in my email yesterday:

I’ve been so ignorant all these years not considering the fact hookers are people. I guess it has been a while since I’ve seen “Pretty Woman.”

As much as I love this email, it’s sorta confusing that I’m supposed to care about the plight of hookers, and then immediately buy Viagra.

How is that even saving a hooker?

Maybe they should try something like: Hookers won’t have sex with you, but they will ask you to sign a petition and then sell you bacon-flavored Viagra.

Bacon-flavored Viagra!

That’s where the big money is. I don’t have a penis and I’d still buy into that one.

This week’s “That’s What She Said.” It’s not my best work and I don’t really understand the commenting going on, but there’s lots of things I don’t understand.

LIKE HOW TO COOK A GODDAMN BAGEL WITHOUT BURNING IT.

Yeah, it’s been that kind of week.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped at ShopKo hoping to find a cheap, black jacket to keep at the office since my nerds keep the heat low. They have The Force to keep them warm. Me? Not so much. I need something a little more tangible than made-up nerd crap.

I found two potentials and made my way to the dressing room. Four of the five dressing room stalls didn’t have mirrors. Just as I was about to take the only usable stall, an elderly woman walked in. Channeling my inner nice I stepped aside and let her go first.

One problem: old people are slow, and I am impatient. I waited a total of five minutes and then convinced myself she suffered a heart attack and was dead. I didn’t feel the need to alert anyone, because really she’s already dead. What could they possibly do? I mean besides find her a nice outfit to be buried in.

I made the best of the situation and headed to the empty men’s dressing room. No biggie. I’d be in and out before anyone noticed… or so I thought. Unfortunately, after trying the clothes on, I couldn’t get the stall door opened again. The stupid lock was stuck. I twisted it a few times, but nothing happened. I attempted to use my best ninja move and kick the door open, but having the ability to watch my bad ass moves in the mirror was too distracting.

Thinking I was still alone I dropped to all fours and crawled under the stall door towards freedom.

Only freedom just happened to be the left foot of a store manager. You know because my life isn’t weird enough. He looked as shocked as I did, but recovered just in time to lecture me on my inappropriate shopping behavior.

Um…

Um…

I had absolutely no retort. Nothing. The dude, in all his pimply glory, was correct. I apologized and left, making myself empty threats never to shop there again.

I think it’s safe to say I will never again channel my inner nice, because nice is bullshit and results in figuring out ways to move closer to Target.